every day in the late afternoon, she sets about meticulously preparing the evening meal. her long wavy hair she pins up in a neat tight bun and tying the bows of the apron around her waist she begins her task with her religious fervour. Each action precise and purposeful, each cut sharp and swift as she brings the knife down on the chopping board. the soft crunching sound of stems or the severing of bones. fresh aromas rise up and swirl around her but she is oblivious to the smells her brows knitted in concentration as there can be no room for error.
gingerly she places the silverware and china atop the table. fork knife/ spoon, chopstick perfectly aligned atop the embroidered table cloth. spotless and gleaming she could almost catch her reflection in them. but appearences would have to wait. time is of the essence and he would be home soon.
the air is almost exploding with the strong scents as she lifts the delicately arranged dishes and sets them on the table, embracing the centerpiece of fresh geberas she got from the florist earlier. momentarily she allows herself to stop and admire the feast infront of her but the longer hand on the face of the clock shifts and once again it is time to move on.
whisking the apron from herself, she removes the pin and her dark hair cascades down framing her face. the clock chimes, it is time. she gathers herself and sits at the table waiting expectantly for the man she loves.
time crawls by slowly, darkness decends. the hot meal gone cold and the delicious fragrances had long since disappeared. but still she sits and she waits. her fingers trembling, tears brimming in her eyes.